About the Author

SWATI SHARMA is a born and bred Delhi product. Before dabbling into writing, she completed her post graduation in business. Before Fashionably Yours happened, Swati authored four coffee table books and has written for a lifestyle magazine.

One thing which very few people know that Swati is clairvoyant, and no it’s not a joke. She lives in Delhi with her extensive collection of nail polishes, lipsticks and with very neat piles of books and magazines.

Drop by her Facebook, Twitter (@Author_swati) or website (swatisharmabooks.com) and say hi!

Fashionably Yours
Girl in the City
Swati Sharma

This book is dedicated to my three glam divas; Viksha, Mayra and Ivana.

I wouldn’t be able to deliver this baby without these babies.

Acknowledgement

To my lovely publisher, Amrita Verma Chowdhury, for believing in me and in this story and giving me the opportunity to turn my dream into a reality. Thank you so much for your support and ideas. I am really thankful of every single person who has been involved in the production of this book; the editor, illustrator, publicist and printers. A big thanks to Harlequin India for taking this book to the masses.

Huge thanks to my family and friends for being so tolerant with my wild and weird ideas over the years. Special thanks to Christy Goldstein and Ananda aka Dr. Bliss, for being so fabulous and believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Humongous thanks to the entire team of Chicklitclub and to Stephanie Pegler, you guys totally changed my life.

I am also eternally grateful of all the people who have endlessly supported me and cheered me on Facebook, Twitter and on my blog. Every one of you is just amazing.

I have to give the special mention to my three little girls; Viksha, Mayra and Ivana for being in my life. These girls have made me complete in every way and their smiles have helped me get through the toughest and darkest times while writing this book. I will always be in debt of your unconditional love, trust and support. You girls simply rock!

Last but not the least, I want to thank every single person I have ever met in my life because each one of them has taught me a thing or two about life, good or bad (that’s an entirely different matter). A very special thanks to Costa and Starbucks for their excellent ice teas which helped me stay sane during zillions of editing rounds.

That’s pretty much it. I love you guys.

Once upon a time there lived a girl.

All she ever wanted was to be a part of something big …

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgement

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

It was a very cold December morning and I was lying in my bed blissfully with one foot propped out of the warm quilt. A five-foot tall PVC Christmas tree was tree was standing gloriously by the window. It looked almost magical under the layers of twinkling fairy lights and hundreds of ornaments. Though it had been four days since Christmas, I couldn’t bring myself to take down the decorations and transport the tree back to the attic, much to the annoyance of my mom who could never understood that how on earth her by-all-means Punjabi daughter came to loving such a foreign festival. But for me Christmas was the most happy day of my life. Nothing could go wrong around Christmas. I blew a kiss to the tree before reaching for the top drawer of my nightstand.

As I pulled it open, I felt my heart flutter at the sight of a crisp, white envelope which was going to take me a step closer to my dream. Gingerly I reached inside the envelope and pulled out a letter. I read the job offer for the zillionth time since it had arrived last evening.

Dear Maya Kapoor,

Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you the position of ‘Feature Writer’ with the online division of Style magazine.

Please find the attached draft copy of your offer letter from Style, Mumbai.

Do go through the letter and let us know if you have any queries with regards to the offer.

I had waited for this letter for far too long. Though Style was not my first preference, I realized that Glamorous was too posh to recruit someone straight out of Shimla College of Mass Communication and Advertising. But at least Style was situated in the same city as my bible. For the last seven years I had dreamt only one dream, and that was to write for Glamorous. And for this I had fought a tough battle against my mom who was adamant to see me graduate to become a CA or a primary school teacher at the very least. Yuk! According to her, no decent man would marry a girl like me who had had a word ‘media’ written in her bio.

“Girls in media are considered to have loose character. You have landed yourself in a dark pit,” she grumbled in my ear as we posed for a family photo on my convocation.

Gazing at the letter in my hands I wonder if she would throw me out of the house, dragging me by my hair or have a minor panic attack when I broke the news to her.

Fifteen minutes later I was out of the comfort of my bed and ready to spill the beans to my parents. I just wanted to be over with all the drama as soon as possible so that I could finally celebrate my job with a tall cup of hot chocolate before starting to pack my stuff. Trotting along the creaking wooden floor I walked up to my closet and pulled out a jumper to slide over my old GAP T-shirt. It was freezing. It had been a week and it hadn’t stopped snowing.

Pulling the jumper over my head, I tied my light brown traces in a top knot on my head. Bracing myself for true Punjabi mother drama I tiptoed down the stairs and just when I gave myself one last pump and headed towards the kitchen where she was usually found in the morning hours, I came to the screeching halt at the sight of our neighbourhood ladies. The realisation hit me like a basketball. It was the last Sunday of the month. It was sort of a ritual on Gulmohar Street. On the last Sunday of every month all the women of the colony gathered at one neighbor’s house along with their daughters where they would cook a wide variety of delicious brunch treats. In the meanwhile, their daughters of nearly my age, a.k.a marriageable age, sat in the drawing room and merrily discussed whatever cooking, yoga, knitting or sewing classes they were attending. Then, over the breakfast table, the women discussed possible suitors for their daughters and recommended any eligible bachelors they knew of for each other’s daughters. And while all this happened, all the male members of the colony headed to the town’s sports club where they played squash, tennis, swam and bonded over beer and brandy. To be honest to me it all seemed like a cult where the women tried to brainwash their daughters into thinking that all they needed to do in their lives was to be a good housewife. I was the least favorite member of this cult.

“Maya, why are you still in your pyjamas?” Mom appeared from the kitchen and looked at me disapprovingly. Suddenly all the girls in the room who were dressed to the nine in their salwar-kameez’s stopped talking and looked at me inquisitively. I bet they were enjoying this moment. Those bitches never liked me.

“I forgot it’s brunch day!” I said, in a small voice, like a child who had been caught for breaking a cookie jar.

“Hayo rabba! Kudiya ki kara mai tera?” she waved her hands dramatically in air. “Now go and get ready in five minutes, and I mean five,” she hissed.

“I’ll be back in four,” I threw a look to the girls whose ears were well trained on our conversation, before heading back to my room and running a quick shower. Three minutes and fifty-five seconds later I was back downstairs, dressed in a delicate chiffon suit with a shawl around my shoulders. I despised wearing suits because they are clumsy and I didn’t feel like me, but today was an exception. I had already screwed up and I didn’t want any more blunders to spoil my mom’s mood, at least until the afternoon when I would finally tell her about my job offer. As I entered the room, mom gave me a brief smile before instructing me and my younger sister, Payal, to lay breakfast on the dining table which was taking a place of pride by the one and only fireplace of the Kapoor residence. While I laid the cutlery, Payal garnished the dishes and very artfully arranged them on the table. Payal was every inch the part of this cult. She had attended the sewing class and was currently attending the cooking class. As much as she was loved by all the members of the colony and by my mother for her dutiful nature, I was looked down upon for being rebellious and ultra-modern.

OK, now I wanted to spew.

Payal wasn’t always like this. In fact we used to be really close till recently and she told me about everything from her first fag to her first shag. But three months ago one of the girls in our neighborhood, fresh out of the high school, got married to one of the rich men in the town courtesy her parents. When Payal saw a girl who couldn’t even afford a taxi ride, proudly travelling in a BMW, she decided to get married to a richer guy and up her standard and status in town. And this new Payal made me cringe every single time we were in the same room.

“Breakfast is served,” I announced to all the ladies and their dying-to-get-married daughters. As everyone helped themselves to the deep-fried and oil-laden dishes, I piled my plate with egg bhurji and perched myself on one of the sofa seats. As I was hungrily scoffing down my breakfast, I heard the girls around me discussing TV serials from last night.

“I can’t believe Ram left her …” said a girl in a gaudily embroided patiala salwar-kameez.

“… and that fight in Big Boss last night was so amazing, yaar …” said another, through a mouthful of pav bhaji.

“I am sure she will win it this time,” Payal remarked about a girl with an awfully long face who was one of the top finalists of Big Boss.

“Hey, who do you think will get evicted this week?” out of nowhere Sharma Aunty’s daughter directed a question to me. Or was that Verma Aunty’s daughter?

“Ummm … I have no idea. I don’t watch Big Boss,” I retorted.

“You are kidding, right?” she asked and I felt something in the air suddenly shift.

“Err … no!” I nearly laughed at her idiotic expression.

“You don’t watch Big Boss?” I could tell she was in deep shock.

“I prefer Game of Thrones,” I said nonchalantly.

“What is that?” A girl clad in a red churidar asked me curiously.

Oh my goodness, was she even serious?

“Umm … a TV serial!” I said gingerly.

“My mom was right. You are crazy,” she said in horror.

Well to be honest I wasn’t surprised or baffled to hear her remark because it was common belief about me on Gulmohar Street. And on top of that my own mom had declared me insane, impractical, crazy and utterly irresponsible, time and again.

“Have you talked to Mr. Alhuwalia?” I heard a snippet of the conversation between Mom and Sheetal Aunty when I went back to the breakfast table to refill my plate.

“I did call him but same answer. He said that his son is very innocent and down to earth and he doesn’t think that a modern girl like Maya would be compatible with him or the family. Main tan badi pareshan haan. How will she get married like this?” Mom moaned.

“Take my suggestion, Sunanda, and from now on don’t tell anyone about Maya’s mass media degree and instead tell them that she has graduated in arts? Trust me nobody asks to see degrees and certificates while fixing marriages. Nobody would ever find out!” Sheetal Aunty added helpfully and I could see Mom’s mind working around this idea.

How could they?

I had spent three years studying my arse off to graduate with first class and worked doubly hard to get the campus placement. What’s wrong with all the women of Gulmohar Street? Why couldn’t they think about anything beyond rishtas and weddings?

Four hours later everyone bid goodbye to each other and left for their houses. While Payal and I cleared the table and dishes, mom rearranged the drawing room.

“Mom, I want to talk to you about something” I said and as if on a cue the main door swung open and Dad entered the house. I instantly felt relieved and much more confident now. Though Dad had never openly approved of me doing a media course, he never, not even once said or did anything to make me feel guilty about my choice. He understood me, but unfortunately he didn’t have much say when it came to me and my sister because Mom believed that she knew how to raise girls into proper ladies and Dad should steer clear of all womanly business.

“It’s colder than ever today.” He shrugged the snow from his overcoat before taking it off and hanging it on the coat rack by the door.

“Let me get you some tea,” Mom said, but before she could make a move to the kitchen I offered to get the tea.

“Mom, you relax. I’ll get the tea.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth I could see their stunned expressions. It wasn’t their fault. I never made anything before except the occasional late-night Maggi.

“OK,” as seconds ticked away Mom finally found her voice.

Within a few minutes I came back to the room with the tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits and found everyone sitting around the sofa with curiosity as if for the first time in their lives they were going to see tea. As I poured a cup of tea for Dad and another cup for Mom, I could feel their eyes boring into my head. They were shocked beyond words.

“What’s the matter, Maya?” Mom asked suspiciously as I handed her a cup.

She was one intelligent woman. No befooling her.

“Nothing,” I smiled nervously.

The moment of revelation had arrived and I could feel my heart palpitating and my palms sweating.

“You said you wanted to talk about something,” Mom carried on her inspection as Dad looked at me over the brim of the cup. By his expression I could tell that he had smelt a rat.

“I have got a job. It’s with a magazine in Mumbai,” the words rushed out of my mouth.

“What?” she placed the tea back on the table and folded her hands in her lap.

“Wow! Have you gone mad?” Payal laughed. “What do you need a job for?” She asked haughtily.

“You better stay out of it. Nobody asked for your precious opinion,” I gnawed.

“Maya, your sister is right. What do you need a job for? Your dad earns well, you have a roof over your head and if I am not wrong then we have always fulfilled your demands, small or big. I don’t think you need a job. At this point all you should be thinking about is finding a decent husband,” she said sternly.

“But, Mom …” before I could complete my sentence, she cut me off.

“This topic doesn’t need to be dragged. You are not taking the job and that’s that,” she made her decision. I felt my heart sinking. I couldn’t let it happen. This job was my one and only chance to get out of here.

“Sunanda, let her speak at least,” Dad intervened.

“What is there to speak about?” Mom thundered.

“Sunanda, I never come between you and the girls, but this is about Maya’s future. We should help her make the right decision,” he said sternly and I could see Mom’s face turning scarlet with anger.

“I am her mother and who do you think is more concerned about her future than me?” she balked with anger.

“Mom, I want to be someone more than a trophy wife to some rich, useless man,” I said to Mom. From the corner of my eye I could see Payal’s jaw dropping to the floor. She had totally taken offence to my declaration.

“Is it? And what’s that someone you want to be?” she folded her hands across her chest and glared at me.

“Mom, I want to make my own identity. I want to work and be successful,” I pleaded.

“And do you think that being successful will give you a better future than marrying a man who can give economic and social security and the comforts of life?” she was nowhere near giving up and neither was I.

“Yes.” I said with more confidence than I actually felt.

“These are not your words, neither your own thoughts. It’s the result of all those stupid Western movies and serials you watch. Those Western women do nothing more than drink, have babies without marriage and parade around TV screens showing off their skin. Years back I told your father to disconnect the cable but nobody listens to me in this house any more. I have spent my entire life trying to raise you girls properly and this is what I get as the reward? Hayo rabba! Aisa ki kidda main?” tears started to pour from her eyes.

“Sunanda, please stop crying. You are creating unnecessary drama. Our Maya is a very intelligent and responsible girl. She is not one to be influenced by some stupid movie or TV program. If she wants a job then what’s wrong with it? Rather we should be proud of her. She has got a job in such a big city,” he consoled Mom, but she refused to stop crying.

“Big city? No one who goes there ever comes back,” she said between sobs.

“Mom, it’s Mumbai, not a death valley,” I was this close to losing my calm. All this hayo rabba nonsense was getting just too much to handle.

“Mrs. Parekh’s daughter, Anita, went there for some interior design course and see what happened. She sent her wedding card to her parents last week and Mrs. Aggarwal told me that Anita is getting married to some south Indian. Becharre Mr. and Mrs. Parekh have stopped going out of their house out of shame,” her sobs were getting louder.

“Mom, if I was so interested in getting married than I wouldn’t want to go to Mumbai. Trust me,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Sunanda, ab chup bhi ho jao and just say yes to her,” Dad put his hands around Mom’s shoulders.

“If this is what she wants then fine, but if something inappropriate happens in the future be ready to bear the consequences of your doing,” she said icily to me.

“Mom, I would never do anything to shame you, I promise,” I smiled widely at the same time as Payal let out the disgusted sigh.

“I don’t trust your promises. The girl who can go against her own family can never be trusted,” she said sternly.

***

Three days later I packed all of my belongings in two suitcases and was driven to the bus station by dad. Mom and Payal came along too. As Payal rolled her eyes the whole way, Dad instructed me about safety and other things and made me promise that I would call him every day and come visit once in three months. When we reached the station, I hugged Dad tightly and air kissed Payal who smiled stiffly at me.

I reached for Mom to hug her and she whispered in my hair, “You have ruined your life. One day you will regret your decision.”

1

Two years later May 28

It was a crisp morning and I was dressed in black from head to toe, looking every inch perfect. Black Prada jersey dress, black stockings, black Louis Vuitton pumps, black Chanel vintage handbag and kohl-rimmed eyes. I left my exactly-like-out-of-a-glossy-magazine-page living apartment at Murray Hills and got into my shiny white Audi Q7 which was parked just down the road, buckled my seat belt and was just about to place my shiny red sole on the accelerator, when my Blackberry buzzed to life.

It was a reminder message from the boss lady, she wanted me to pick up Tyra Banks from the airport before meeting her at Diane Von Furstenberg’s private show. After lovingly gazing at my Blackberry screen I put away the phone. ‘I don’t understand why people call you an iron woman when you are so sweet?’ I asked myself and turned on the ignition. But before I could speed up I was interrupted by a shrill rinigng …

Mumbling, grumbling and swearing I grabbed my alarm clock from the nightstand and switched it off. Half opening my eyes, I looked at the alarm clock and it took me a good three minutes to figure out that it was just past seven-thirty a.m. Placing the clock back on the nightstand I assured myself that I could easily manage to stay in the bed for an extra five minutes. Pulling the duvet over my head, I closed my eyes and before I realized I was sound asleep again. Little did I know that five minutes would become fifty!

“Oh My God,” hastily I kicked aside the blanket, hopped out of the bed and stripped on the way to the bathroom. “That bitch will be after my life. Again!” I shouted at the walls of the empty apartment.

As I got into the shower I switched to multitasking mode and started washing my hair with one hand and brushing my teeth with the other while figuring out a perfectly a acceptable excuse to throw Natasha’s way. But goddammit! My mind had gone numb. I could think of nothing, null, big fat nada. Turning the shower off and chucking the toothbrush somewhere in the bathroom, I walked back to the room and headed straight to the closet. Pulling open the closet doors, I grabbed the first piece of clothing I could lay my hands on.

Zipping up my bright blue summer dress, I grabbed my battered handbag from the coffee table in the living room, threw my vanity bag in it, put on my old-but-not-yet-worn-out black Aldo peep toes and let myself out of the flat.

Outside the building, under the bright and clear May sky, I was standing nearly in the middle of the road with my completely drenched and uncombed hair with water dripping onto my dress, soaking it at very inappropriate places. ‘After frantically waving my hands in front of every passing cab, I finally succeeded to get one to stop. As the cab screeched to a halt by the side of the buzzing road, I rushed towards it as if this was the last taxi on the planet and my life depended on it. Well, if not my life then at least my job depended on it.

“Could you please take me to Bandra?” I almost pleaded with the cab driver.

“It’s rush hour. I will charge extra,” he said with a stony face.

I was determined to not let go of this cab. It was nearly eight fifty-three a.m. and Natasha would fire me if I missed the editorial meeting which was supposed to start at nine a.m. sharp!

“Whatever it is, let’s go,” I screamed. I agreed to pay the small fortune he quoted and with a heavy heart slid into the passenger seat.

As the cab made its way through bumpy Mumbai roads, I managed to comb my hair, put on mascara, dab lip gloss and fret about the office where by now everyone must have been in the conference room with their bright eyes and shining ideas for the next issue.

Damn!

Thirty minutes later as the cabbie pulled over in front of the Style office, I quickly hopped out, gave him a part of my hard-earned money and barged through the large glass doors. With wobbly legs and a sinking heart I walked towards the lift and with trembling hands jabbed the buttons. As the doors pinged opened on the third floor right in front of the large neon pink sign board of Style, I braced myself for one more lecture on work ethics from my editor. As I made my way towards the conference room, my heart beat faster and faster with every step. I was thirty minutes late.

Bollocks!

Outside the conference room I stopped for a minute, instructed my thudding heart to calm down, forced a wide smile on my face and without wasting another second barged into the room. The entire room went silent as though they hadn’t been talking in the first place. All the e-magazine staff was there, looking at me as if I had a clown nose on my face. Without muttering a word and ignoring twenty pairs of eyes, I walked towards the only empty chair in the whole room which, of course, was right next to Natasha.

Brilliant.

While walking towards the chair I heard people whispering and giggling behind my back. I wondered what was so funny about being late. Gingerly I took my seat, rummaged into my handbag for a notepad and a pen and sat there quietly, ignoring Natasha’s gaze. I couldn’t bring myself to look at anyone or anywhere so I fixed my eyes on the table as if the plain glass was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen in my life.

“Welcome aboard,” said Natasha in a tone which was a synonym for who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are-to-interrupt-the-meeting-and-not-even-bother-to-beg-for-mercy-from-your-boss.

“I am sorry, Natasha,” I croaked.

“Why are you sorry? I think that we all should be sorry that we started this stupid editorial meeting without you. I reckon we all could have waited for you, Style could have waited for you.”

As I looked up at her, I could see the horns on her head and fangs emerging from her mouth.

Gosh!

“You are embarrassing me.”

She always did that. I could bet that humiliating me was her favorite pastime on earth. There were more occasions than I could count on my fingers and toes when she had humiliated me in front of zillions of people, more often than not for no solid reason. I mean, come on spending five minutes waiting for new life on Candy Crush before starting a tough workday was hardly reason for her to insult me in front of the entire office. I swear later that day I heard people whispering about my inability to clear level 33 on Candy Crush.

“You are not going to understand the ethics of the fashion business, are you? We are running not just a magazine, but a fashion magazine. Thousands of girls read this magazine every day, carry it with them in their bags no matter where they go, keep it under their pillows, read it on trains, worship it and want to be associated with it in any way possible. And you have a chance to be a part of this and you just don’t respect your chance,” she thundered with the latest issue of Style in her hands.

Really? I wondered how many girls were insane enough to buy this trash.

“Girls like you …”

Before she could continue her speech, Anu jumped in to stop her from embarrassing me any more.

“Natasha, can we please resume this meeting? After this we also have a meeting with the print staff.”

I loved this girl. Anu wasn’t just the fashion features director at Style but was also my soul sister and confidant.

One hour later the meeting was over and as I was about to get up from my chair, Natasha got hold of my hand.

“If you don’t stop acting this irresponsible, I will take down your online column and your chances to write for the print version will be finished forever,” she said icily.

“I am so …” before I could plead an apology she let go of my hand, got up from the chair and walked out of the room as fast as humanly possible.

“Maya. Why do you do this all the time?” while everyone followed Natasha out of the room, Anu stayed back, just to make sure Natasha didn’t rip my head off and chop it into tiny pieces.

“I know it’s my fault,” I let out a deep sigh. “It was that stupid dream which didn’t let me wake up.”

“Again?” Anu knew about my dream only too well.

It all started when I was sixteen. It was the first time I accidentally flipped through the glossy pages of Glamorous which my aunt from New York had left behind at our place by mistake. Those pages changed my life forever. Two days later I bought the five-year subscription of the magazine and after that I spent every single day marvelling at the awe-inspiring photos, making notes of the amazing fashion tips and religiously reading fashion literature. In those moments of pure pleasure, I promised myself that one day I’d be part of this fashion bible. Hence straight after school, I enrolled into a fashion journalism course, much to the disappointment of my parents who always wanted me to be a CA. I remembered what Mom said the day I accepted the job at Style.

You have ruined your life.

“When will you stop it?” Anu questioned tiredly.

“Trust me that’s what I ask myself all the time. But I don’t think that I am strong enough to let go of this dream.”

Years of trying to get into Glamorous and I had failed each time. Result, every night for six months I used to cry till dawn at the thought that there was someone, somewhere, under the same sky who was living the life which I wanted.

Looking at my humiliated face, she inched towards me and flung her arms around my shoulders.

“Oh sweetie! One day you’ll get there,” she gave me a tight hug. Just when I was beginning to relax in her arms she abruptly pushed me away and turned me round to have a look at my back side.

“What happened?”

“The back of your dress is tucked under your purple knickers. You came all the way from your apartment to this room flashing them for the whole world to see?” her eyes popped out of her perfectly sculpted face.

“I did what?” I ran towards the washroom tucked away in the far corner of the conference room, turned around, craned my neck to have a look at my derriere in the floor-to-ceiling mirror pinned against the wall and prayed for death at the sight of my not-so-attractive and cellulite-loaded bum cheeks.

OH. MY. GOD.

Back in my cubicle I told myself, “This is it.” I had had enough humiliation for one day and I wasn’t going to do another stupid thing. I was going to show Natasha that I was not some floosy. I deserved something more than an online column, something better and bigger than Style — something like Glamorous. Yes, I deserved to be there and one day I would and that day she would realize what a brilliant writer she had lost and would curse herself for underestimating my talent. She would be on the floor on all fours begging me to forgive her and then I would tell her to go and put her magazine where the sun doesn’t shine.

Determined to pen a groundbreaking feature, I switched on the computer but nothing came on the screen. The computer was dead and even after slapping it a million times, I still couldn’t bring it back to life.

This day was rapidly rising on the list of the worst days of my life. First, I flashed my knickers shamelessly to the entire city, then made total arse of myself in front of Natasha and the whole office, and now my computer had crashed and my feature for the next issue was on it. Forget about the bloody humiliation, Natasha would sack me if I didn’t submit my feature before the deadline. I felt my heart falling all the way to the pit of my stomach. I had worked so hard to collect information about the best wedding destination venues in the country. It had taken me an entire month. A month.

When the rest of the writing staff was furiously typing away on their computers and was probably giving the final touches to their nearly finished stories, I was standing just next to my cubicle while the sickly-looking IT guy was trying to do some tricks on my dead computer.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him while repeatedly telling myself, don’t cry, not now, not here.

“What have you done to this? There are five thousand viruses on it,” he shot daggers at me.

“I have done nothing. I swear,” I croacked.

Oh my god! I knew I shouldn’t have downloaded pirated movies and songs on this computer.

“It is taking forever to reboot,” he said.

“Err … Will it ever work again? Can you do this?” I heard myself asking him questions in a voice I didn’t recognize.

“I am an IT guy. I can do anything,” he said, glaring at me.

“I would really appreciate if you could fix this whole mess, please. And quickly,” I said stiffly.

***

Later that evening walking into my flat, I dumped my old battered handbag by the door, kicked off my heels and crashed onto the sofa. The day had been horrible and what was more horrible was the thought of writing the feature all over again, especially when I had planned to watch recorded episodes of Gossip Girls while eating delicious Dominos pizza.

My office computer didn’t get repaired and would take another two days to be back in running condition. But as the submission deadline was tomorrow, I was left with no choice but to re-write the article. It had taken one whole month to research the story but now I had only one night to do it over again.

Pushing the horrific thoughts of doing so much work in a single night out of my mind, I got off the sofa, walked towards the bathroom and ran a cold bath. Dressed in cotton pyjamas and a decade-old UCB T-shirt, I planted myself on the sofa armed with two boxes of Hägaan Dazs, balanced my beloved laptop on my knees and prayed to the Gods that this night be the longest.

2

May 29

Last night I worked my arse off and I think it was around three in the morning when I typed the last word. More than once I felt a strong, sleepy wind wash over me but I wasn’t prepared for any more trouble. So I kept my eyes wide open, took a back-up of the article on a flash drive, just in case, put it safely in my handbag (oh my! I so needed a new one) and only then tumbled off the sofa, found my way through the ever-so-dirty apartment towards the bed and fell asleep. It was just past seven a.m. when I curled onto my side under the warm duvet blissfully unaware of the fact that how boiling hot it was outside my air-conditioned apartment. Since it was only yesterday that I had to listen to the long work ethic lecture from Natasha, I was not ready to give her the opportunity today. So resisting the temptation to stay in bed for just a few more minutes, I decided to get ready and reach office on time, just for a change.

Thirty minutes and a quick shower later I was dressed in an emerald green jumpsuit and Blue Parrot bellies with my hair tied in a chic ponytail and the right amount of makeup to give the perfect illusionary effect of high cheekbones. Just the way I like it. Being ready this early left me with plenty of time to cook an actual breakfast for the first time in weeks. The idea of crispy, hot toast with a dollop of Nutella was just irresistible.

Beaming with pride at my achievement, I walked towards the refrigerator and in just forty seconds managed to find the handle of the door under zillions of post-it notes. Not bad, Kapoor. As I pulled opened the door, I nearly fainted at the odor wafting from it. It smelled like a gutter and as I looked closely (I warn you the sight was not for the fainthearted) I saw green bread which when I bought was a healthy brown. There was also a take away box of half-eaten noodles which I had ordered a couple of weeks ago from a new Chinese food van, but hadn’t liked. With trembling hands I pulled open the vegetable basket at the bottom of the refrigerator and nearly died at the sight of rotten tomatoes with some crawling creatures running around them. Before I could puke inside my one and only refrigerator, I hastily closed the door.

Goodness! What was that?

You see this wasn’t my fault. Not entirely at least. After driving myself insane at work, I hardly had the time to think about cooking something, let alone peering inside the refrigerator or keeping track of the stock in there. Home, kitchen, refrigerator were not my forte. When I was back home in Shimla, Mom had tried to dupe me into learning some cooking and sometimes dragged me to the kitchen to show me how to make mattar paneer but she never understood that it was just not the place for me. But when I landed a job in Mumbai she gave me the recipe of the most basic breakfast item — omelete — which of course I had never attempted to try because I neither had the time nor the energy to do any actual cooking. Sometimes I truly wished that I could hire someone to do all this cooking-cleaning-washing stuff for me, but was such a shame that my salary didn’t even allow me to buy a new vacuum cleaner, let alone hire a helping hand.

Pulling out a pen from my purse, I added, ‘buy freshly baked bread, healthy looking tomatoes or maybe even a box of eggs’ on the list which was pinned on the refrigerator door with a gorgeous pink tiara-shaped magnet. I winched at the length of the list which was overflowing with so many other things like, ‘clean the apartment at least once a week’, ‘vacuum the sofa at least once a month’, ‘put dirty laundry in the machine before it starts resembling the leaning tower of Pisa’, ‘lose ten pounds’, ‘increase alcohol tolerance level’. The list was just too long to read and sadly it seemed I never got around to accomplishing many of the targets on it. But I was sure that one day I would have enough time, stamina and hopefully motivation to accomplish at least some of them.

***

As I strode past Veena with a steaming vanilla latte, she covered the phone receiver with her hand and said in her singsong voice, “Good Morning, Maya.”

“Morning, darling,” I said without bothering to stop.

I was in no mood to waste my precious time with this walking-talking-bitching woman. This girl might be just a receptionist at Style but she had more gossip than the top gossip mags.

“There’s a letter for you. It’s on your desk,” she smirked.

I never liked this girl and trust me it wasn’t because of her piercing voice.

Once, when everyone was pretending to be fully involved in a brainstorming session for the theme of the upcoming issue under the watchful eyes of Natasha, I excused myself to the bathroom where I overheard Vicious Veena saying to some skinny bitch that I was probably the biggest loser she had ever seen in her life because, a) I was the kind who could tempt anyone to humiliate me any time, anywhere; b) she had no idea how any girl could live with such a bulging tummy; and c) she strongly felt that I would end up being an unlucky spinster who was capable of jinxing any happy couple by merely casting the glance at them.

As if I was some witch.

I swear for a moment I considered dragging her to the toilet seat by her hair and shoving her head into the urinated water. Bloody tramp! I never felt more humiliated by anyone in my entire life, except maybe Natasha. It was beyond me why she called me fat when I was just size a 8? Fine, size 12. But this was a perfectly healthy size. And last but definitely not the least, I was not an unlucky spinster. I refused to fall into the arms of any man. Finding true love was not that easy. I had decided to wait for that someone instead of taking whatever whoring opportunity came my way. I knew it would be no use to explaining anything to that bitch, so I pretended that I hadn’t heard anything and continued passing her desk everyday without throwing a hot latte at her.

“Thank you, Veena. I’ll have a look,” I retorted. I was about to step through the glass doors when the elevator slid open and I found myself smiling with relief.

“Hey gorgeous,” Anu gave me a quick peck as we walked towards our desks.

“Morning!” I beamed.

“By the way, what are you doing here at this time? You’re breaking your thou shalt always be late oath?” she chided.

“Oh yeah,” I rolled my eyes. “Well you should sometimes do things for change,” I gushed. Suddenly I noticed her perefectly manicured nails, “Are you heading somewhere after office?”

This girl was the laziest person who ever worked in a fashion magazine. Sometimes she would go through the entire week with the mass of greasy hair on her head. But no matter how hard she tried to be careless or look like a normal girl without a fancy blow dry or makeup, she always ended up looking effortlessly glamorous and her hair despite being greasy, always appears beautifully tangled and glorious. She was world opposite to me. Five feet four inchs, tiny waist despite of all the big bowls of cheese nachos she gorged on, colored hair, visible collar bones, all fair and fragile. And then there was me. Five feet six inches, broader than any average girl on the globe, little more than generous curves, hard to manage hair, unexisting collar bones, slightly tanned and not the very least fragile. How were we even friends?

“Yes! I am going to a club with Sameer,” she beamed.

“Ahhh! Have fun,” I winked.

Hearing club and Sameer in one sentence brought back some memories, some not-so-pleasant memories. Not so long ago, on a particularly horrendous day Natasha rejected Anu’s highly researched story about budget fashion outright which made Anu fume with anger. Unable to bear the sight of her sad and angry face I decided to cheer her up and took her to a club on Marine Drive. On our way to the club Anu kept swearing, screaming and crying about the injustice and that was when I realized that I was not prepared to handle her on my own. So I speed dialled Sameer and begged him to join us. Once in the club, I perched on a sofa in a far corner as they set the dance floor on fire under the influence of tons of alcohol and totally forgot about me. After gulping down one too many shots of tequila and spending an hour on my own looking at the blissfully happy couples making out in every corner of the club and repetitively questioning myself when my someone would come around, finally I decided to end the torture. Pushing through the crowd I headed for the spot where my one and only best friend in the whole world and her (im)perfect boyfriend were showing off some awfully drunken dance moves.

“I have to go,” I shouted over the music as I caught her gaze.

“What?” she frowned.

“I am tired. I am leaving,” I screamed.

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“I am going home, you fuckhead,” and this time not just her, the entire club heard me loud and clear because God had conspired against me and the asshole DJ suddenly switched to Celine Dion straight from Lady Gaga.

What a disaster that night had been!

This day however, was turning out better than I could have expected. For starters when I re-read my article in the morning before taking printouts, I realized it turned out even better than the one I lost in the computer crash and second (this was the highlight of my day) Natasha wasn’t in the office for the whole day. This meant that I technically had the entire day to myself.

I fished out the stack of old issues of Glamorous from the drawer in my cubicle, got myself a large cup of coffee from the coffeemaker which was installed only for Natasha’s use who liked to drink freshly brewed coffee, unlike the rest of the staff who were forced to survive on the tasteless vending machine coffee, and propped my legs up on the desk. Leafing through the glossy pages of my fashion bible over my cuppa, I thanked my fairy godmother.

“Holy Moly, is it even for real,” I was running my sweaty palm over a picture of a stunning Eli Saab gown with a mind-numbing price tag when the phone on my desk started ringing and made me jump out of my skin. Getting a hold of myself I picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Do you have a pen with you?” Natasha said in a steely voice.

“Err … yes,” I squinted at the phone.

Why was she asking me about a pen? Did she get security cameras installed in the office and connected to her phone so that she could keep an eye on the staff even when she was away? Did she see me chilling out in my cubicle? Was she going to fire me? Why was she asking about the pen?

“Jot down this email address,” she dictated and before I could ask who’s email it was or what I was supposed to do with it, she added, “This is Aryan Malik’s email, he is a photographer and he is going to do a photo shoot for us. He is waiting for some details regarding the same. Talk to Anu, take all details from her and shoot him an email. And for God’s sake, be quick about it!” she snapped and cut the phone.

What a bitch? First she interrupted my near-perfect day without any warning, then she didn’t even bother to acknowledge my greeting, and on top of that she assigned me a task which technically should have been done by her secretary or at least by some intern. If I hadn’t needed this job so bad I would have kicked her arse with especially designed iron-spiked stilettos.

It was ten past six when I and Anu went to Starbucks. While I bought myself a double shot latte, she headed into the washroom and changed into her beautiful, georgette shift dress. Armed with coffee I joined her as she finished zipping herself up, closed the lid of the toilet and sat on it.

“That’s one hell of a dress,” I said before greedily guzzling the steaming hot coffee and burning my tongue. Ouch!

“Thanks! Mom got it for me from Italy. My parents went there last year to celebrate their 27th wedding anniversary. My mom is one big shopaholic,” she rolled her eyes.

Was she kidding me? Moms don’t do that. They kill you with their eyes when you even think of buying more than one pair of skinny jeans at a time. They don’t buy you stunning georgette dresses; they buy the most horrendous looking, over-the-top embellished suit in the shop. At least my mom did that.

I looked at her in disbelief.

“What that look is all about?” her eyes darted to me.

“You must have incredible karma to get a mom like that,” I retorted.

“That has to be true,” she beamed before finger combing her gorgeous hair. “I am good to go. How do I look?” she clasped her hands together and looked at me curiously.

“What? No makeup?” I asked out of habit.

Anu was probably the only girl I knew who hadn’t warmed to makeup. She believed in being au natural and the worst part was that she actually didn’t really need makeup to look au natural. Her skin was that flawless.

“I don’t do makeup, sweetie,” she batted her eyelashes.

“I know but no matter how wonderful your skin is, you have got to have some makeup on,” I said in a very poised manner.

“Says who?” she crossed her arms across her chest.

“Says me. Now don’t waste time and let me help you with it,” I said and before she could stop me I produced the emergency vanity kit from my bag and started working my way through blushers and mascaras. After finishing the task I stepped back to admire my work. “Perfect” I purred. I was genuinely pleased with my craft.

“Thank you so much. I am in your debt. What would have I done without you, Maya Kapoor?” she said sarcastically.

“You would have been probably ended up going on your date with a shit face,” I branded a devilish laugh.

“Now can we just go? I don’t want to be late,” she pleaded.

I packed my vanity kit, slid it back into my bag, grabbed my coffee and followed her outside. When we emerged from the café, I was swept off my feet by the sudden change in the weather but Anu shuddered at the thought of rain washing off her makeup and spoiling her dress, but it was barely drizzling. A very early pre-monsoon tease by the rain gods.

“What the fuck?” she let out an exasperated sigh!

“What’s wrong with you? Just look at the weather,” I pointed at the dark grey clouds. They looked breathtaking, and it was delightfully windy. I clasped my hands in excitement. She looked at me disgustedly for a second before hurriedly running for her car in the parking.

“Come fast. It’s raining,” she shouted at me from the driver’s seat.

“Don’t be so over-dramatic,” I tutted.

“Are you coming or not?” she shouted.

“No. I think I’ll walk,” I grinned.

“Are you sure?”

“I am.” I smiled and waved her goodbye.

Instead of going home, I decided to walk in the opposite direction. Digging out the iPod from the depths of my handbag, I untangled the earphones and, to the sound of Laura Pausini, headed towards the ocean. Sitting on the edge of Carter Road, I couldn’t help but wonder how beautiful the ocean looked, as if it was dancing hand-in-hand with the tiny falling drops without a damn care in the world. It was so romantic and almost magical. I felt my heart flutter at the sight.

3

May 31

Today I woke up to a not-so-unexpected phone call. What on earth could Mom want from me at six-thirty on a Friday morning? With my Blackberry in hand I was deciding between red or green and before I could press the red button, the ringing had died. I thanked my karma. Mornings are not the time to talk to your mother, someone else’s mother or any mother on earth in general.

When I reached the office I spent an hour networking on social media. Networking is nowadays a must and of utmost importance for every business and profession and what could be better than Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Logging out of my said accounts, I typed Harrods in Google’s search bar and promised myself that I would use it only for reference for my next article on ‘Global Online Shopping Trends’ and not give in to the temptation of browsing it’s gorgeous collection of bags, shoes, clothes and accessories. I knew it was going to be tough but I couldn’t risk being caught. As the website opened, I got the feeling that I was going to fail spectacularly and before I could accept my defeat I heard the clatter of stilettos in the lobby which was getting louder with every passing second. Before I had the chance to crane my neck to view the owner of the nude silk and leather Nine West peep toes, I knew who it was.

“Hey darling,” Veena flashed a crooked smile.

“What do you want?” I asked sternly.

How dare that bitch look like the Indian version of Posh without fake boobs? I just couldn’t understand how someone could afford a Zara dress, Nine West shoes, Bobbi Brown makeup and a Charles & Keith handbag when they were a mere receptionist. That too in a not-so-high-flying firm like Style. I mean even Natasha could only afford M.A.C. In between all the shabby and tackily dressed employees of the office, Veena looked like she owned all of it and we worked for her.

“Relax. Why so rude all the time?” she smirked, while waving a fluffy white envelope on my face.

“What’s that?”

“Oh this? This is for you. That’s why I came here to deliver it personally,” she said.

“Then why don’t you just give it to me and go back to your work,” I snapped before snatching the envelope from her perfectly manicured fingers. “Oh. Credit card bill,” my face fell.

“Yes. Your credit card bill,” she looked down at me. “I knew you were poor but didn’t know things were so bad,” she said in a sympathetic tone.

“How dare you read my personal documents?” I hissed through clenched teeth. “And I am not poor.”

“Oh come on. Don’t be such a snob. I just accidently opened it, not like I meant to,” she feigned innocence.

“I would really appreciate if you won’t repeat such accidents in the future,” I shot daggers at her.

“See, some accidents are fortunate accidents. Now I know about your poor financial condition, I can at least help you. What are friends for after all?” she grinned. The nerve of the bitch!

“For the last time, I am not poor and I don’t need your help. Just leave,” I said sternly.

“Come on, babes. I can set up a donation campaign for you if you want. What about gofundme.com?” she ignored my warning and continued to spit poison at me.

I was boiling with anger and ready to burst and burn everything within a hundred meters of me when I saw Natasha emerging from her cabin and thought better of it. Natasha hated me and if I started screaming or fighting with Veena, she would kick me out of the office for creating unnecessary drama. So instead of waiting for Veena to leave I decided to do the honors.

“Excuse me, I have to go to the washroom.” Leaving her hovering over my desk, I picked my way out.

Sitting on the toilet seat with a crisp sheet of the credit card statement in my hands I was thinking how sensible it would be to accept Veena’s offer of setting up a donation campaign. There was no way in hell that I could pay seventy thousand rupees in sixty days. How could I let myself so out of control? Ten thousand for a bloody perfume? So what if it was on sale? So what if it was Chanel N°5? Oh come on! It was Chanel N°5, it was worth every penny, I scolded myself. But how was I going to pay off this bill?

After crying for ten minutes and practically using up all the water in the city for rinsing my face and rubbing away runny mascara marks, I got a hold of myself and went back to my desk only to find Anu sitting in my chair and browsing through the Harrods website.

For a moment I thought of telling her about the bill but then thought better of it. I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

“Look at those pins. You can give Kate Middleton a run for her money,” I mustered my brightest smile.

“Thank God, at least you don’t think I am fat,” she gave a pinched smile. How could someone who weighed as little as a hundred pounds be fat? What was the world coming to?

“Who said you are fat?”

“Sameer,” she sighed. “He always asks me to lose a couple of pounds. Can you imagine?”

Yes, I very well could.

“A man with a brain that weighs less than a piece of popcorn could say such things. It’s not unusual.”

“What?” she looked shocked.

And I thought I was talking to myself. I usually never talked to her about Sameer because basically I hated him, but criticizing him openly could stain our friendship and I wasn’t ready to risk it so most of the times I keep my precious thoughts to myself. The things you do for friendship.

“Nothing. Sorry for that. Anyway why are you here?” I asked, completely changing the subject.

“Well I am here to tell you that we are going out for a party tonight,” she beamed.

“You mean a real party with neon lights, loud music and delicious cocktails?”

I couldn’t believe that we were actually talking about a party. Before meeting Sameer, Anu and I used to party like hopeless teenagers with no guardian in sight, but it felt like ages ago because when she met him, everything changed. He had practically replaced every other thing and every other person in her life. I personally thought he knew some kind of occult art. How could you explain her dating a man like him? I really missed those late nights and wild parties with Anu.

“I knew you would forget. It’s Sameer’s birthday, you idiot, and he is throwing a party and you know that I don’t know half his friends. So, I don’t want to sit there and get bored to death while they laugh at their stupid, intimate jokes. I told him, if he wants me there, he has to invite you,” she grinned.

Oh fuck!

“So it’s you who is inviting me, not him,” I rolled my eyes.

“Well technically it’s the same thing. Isn’t it?” she threw me don’t-you-even-think-of-bailing-out-from-this look.

“But he doesn’t even like me,” I blurted out. It was true.

“Oh come on. Don’t you give me that shit again,” she had made up her mind and since I knew I was going to lose this argument with her, I gave up protesting.

“Anyways. Listen, you and I are going shopping after office and I don’t want to hear any stupid excuses,” she meant every word of it.

“But my credit cards are over the limit and I can’t even afford to buy fake eyelashes, let alone splurge on some over-priced piece of clothing,” I played my trump card. Well it was true. I was way over my credit card limit.

“Really?” she narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“I never lie about plastic money,” I confessed honestly.

“OK. Then let me give you a loan,” she said in no-nonsense tone.

“What?”

“Yes. I will give you a loan to buy a dress for tonight and you can pay me back by coming to the party. Simple,” she smiled triumphantly.

Bitch!

“Nothing can stop you from coming to this party, darling,” she added and pushed back my chair, rose to her feet and walked back to her cabin.

***

Walking through the large glass doors of Palledium Mall, we trotted along the shinning Italian marble floor and headed straight to GUESS. Once inside the store, betwixt all the gorgeous clothes, painfully beautiful shoes and enviously thin sales girls, I started to relax. What was it about stores that made you feel ecstatic as soon as you stepped inside the glittering world of clothes, shoes and accessories, rail after rail, rack after rack?

After browsing through every single shelf and thoroughly examining all the clothes, I laid my eyes on beautiful baby pink silk shorts. As soon as I touched the butter smooth fabric, I felt the tiny hair on my hands stand fearing that I might stain its glossy texture.

“Wow! They’re beautiful,” I jumped a good two feet in the air as Anu appeared by my side with her big, round eyes fixed on the shorts.

“Aren’t they? Shall I try it on?”

“Are you kidding me? How can you not try this beauty?” she frowned.

Armed with possibly the most beautiful piece of fabric I could ever have found, I walked towards the trial room while Anu chose a sexy cream-black number and put it in the purchase basket without even bothering to try it, as always. Once inside the trial room, I stripped off my old Levi’s jeans and carefully tried to put on the feather-light shorts while thinking about which top I’d pair it with when suddenly I was jerked out of my thoughts.

“Ohmygod! Ohmygod! OH.MY.GOD,” unable to breathe I screamed at the top of my lungs.

“What happened? Are you alright? Maya?” I heard Anu banging on the trial room door. “Open the door.”

“I can’t button it up,” I whispered as tears burst from my eyes.

“What? I can’t hear you. Please open this damn door,” Anu shrieked from the other side of the door.

“I can’t button it up,” I shouted.

“What? Is that it? Don’t worry, I’ll get you the bigger size.” She dashed inside the store and before I could blink, she was back, “Open the door and take it. It will fit you.”

Moved by her inhumanity and fueled by anger, I pulled open the door with as much force as possible.

“Don’t you understand the seriousness of this situation?” I hissed while standing in the doorway in my plain white T-shirt and undone shorts.

“You are overreacting. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a bit tight around the waist,” she said nonchalantly as if trying a size bigger than your regular size was no big deal. Listen to this girl.

“It’s not just a bit tight and you still don’t get it,” I couldn’t believe that she couldn’t see the severity of the situation.

I opened my mouth to say something but couldn’t find my voice. Before I could control the building lump in my throat, I broke into sobs which in no time became uncontrollable and utterly embarrassing for Anu. Her face went bright scarlet because of a fat, crying friend in the middle of the shop.

“OK. Let’s get you changed into your jeans and get you out of here,” her voice softened as she led me inside the trial room and shut the door behind her.

***

“I am sure you can find something in your closet,” Anu tried to cheer me up.

I was so embarrassed by my new and much bigger waist size that I wasn’t listening to her words. I was trying to sooth my wounds with a red velvet cupcake I had picked up on the way out of the mall.

“You all right?” She asked as she stopped in front of my apartment.

“Yeah,” I said flatly and hopped out of the car while balancing my purse on the nook of my elbow. How I could be all right?

“Shall I come and pick you up for the party?”

“No. It’s fine. I will see you there.”

***

A half-hour and two glasses of Pinot Grigio later, I succeeded to push the memories of the disastrous evening from my mind and dug out a ruby red tunic which I bought from my first salary but never got the chance to wear thanks to my limited social life. After spending nearly ten minutes under bearably hot water, when I peered into the mirror, I found a girl with a shiny nose and a fresh rosy complexion looking back at me with big, twinkly eyes.

Dressed in my ruby red tunic, I applied au natural makeup on my face, straightened my hair, slapped on a moisturizer-foundation concoction on the exposed parts of my body (one of the best tips I had picked up from the magazine) and slipped my feet into the black pumps which I bought in a sale last month but had never had the opportunity to wear either. Fine. I was lying. To be honest I was afraid that I would stain it with something ridiculous which would spoil its suede texture forever or worse; I might fall flat on my arse, which I would say had slightly more chances of happening considering the deadly combination of super high heels, bumpy Mumbai roads and my wobbly legs. But tonight I didn’t have any other option.

Before leaving the apartment I dashed into my room to take the one last look at myself in the full-length mirror on the wall just next to my not-so posh bed. How had I gained so many pounds and not realized it until this evening?

4

June 1

My heart was beating fast, my palms were sweating, my head was throbbing and I could feel my nerves shrinking. Oh shit! Was I having a heart attack? Panicking, I struggled to open my eyes because they seemed stuck together. After trying for a few seconds, I used my fingers to peel them apart and in the process felt something sticking to my fingers. Mascara. Gazing around the wastebin identical flat of mine, I was trying hard to think what I was doing lying in my bed when I should have been at a birthday party and oh my god what the hell was the sun doing out in the sky in the middle of the night. Before I could make the sense of anything, I felt something turning, tossing and churning in the pit of my stomach and attempting to come out. Hopping off the sofa I ran towards my bathroom, not here not here and fell flat on my face over the pile of empty pizza boxes. But I had no time to wince as my forehead smacked the ground, instead I hoisted myself up from the floor and barged into the bathroom, ran for the basin and vomitted. Yuk!

Three highly unpleasant minutes later, I gained some control over my trembling body. Clutching the sides of the cornflower blue washbasin, I tried to composed myself and shove some oxygen into my lungs. As I looked up I found myself staring into the flea market bargain mirror with a cheap wooden frame. Someone with smudged lipstick, runny-sticky mascara and violently screwed up hair stared back at me. Was that me? I wondered. It made absolutely no sense. In a half-numbing and half-wondering state, I grabbed the disgusting blue colored Listerine from the cabinet and rinsed my mouth.

Wandering back into the room, I tried very hard to figure out what exactly had happened. As my mind was doing an absolutely rubbish job of remembering anything, from the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the coffee machine. It was staring at me innocently and inviting me to have that one, tempting brew which might help me to understand that what the freaking hell I was doing in my flat when I should have been getting wasted over one too many drinks in a club. I headed towards the kitchen very carefully and gracefully, carefully avoiding the pile of empty pizza boxes.

Plugging in the coffee maker, I placed my favorite polka dot vintage coffee mug under the nozzle and set the timer.

“OK. So now what I am doing here? Why I don’t remember coming back to the apartment?” I asked myself and waited for some no-nonsense answer.

Precisely after one minute, the intoxicating brown liquid came flowing out of the nozzle and filled my cup to the brim but my question remained unanswered. Damn.

Flopping down on the sofa in the living room with a warm cup of coffee cradled between my palms, I stared into the distance.

What the hell was I still doing here? Did I pass out after that last glass of Pinot Grigio and not make it to the party?

No. That couldn’t be true. I remembered leaving my flat last night and somehow had a vague memory of someone sitting on Sameer’s lap.

Then? Could it be possible that I went to the party after all and passed out after getting wasted over one too many drinks?

But if I passed out on some dirty sofa of some dark, smoky club, how did I get home? I certainly didn’t have any memory of leaving the club or getting back to the apartment. While still ruling out various possibilities, I took a huge gulp of the coffee and as its bitterness touched my taste buds, I wanted to puke.

Very ungracefully, I was sprawled on my sofa in the dress from last night and smudged makeup when I heard the key turning in the lock. Before my mind could wander off to crazy imaginations, Anu walked into the flat in the same black and cream dress which we bought yesterday for the party, clutching two cups of Starbucks and a heavily laden brown paper bag.

“What are you doing here?” I asked while scrambling into a sitting position.

“Want some coffee?” she asked, completely ignoring my question.

“Never wanted it so bad.”

I had a feeling that something was very wrong. Terribly, ethically, horribly wrong.

“Here,” she passed me one cup, placed the brown paper bag on the table and gracefully arranged herself on the sofa besides me, carefully avoiding my gaze.

“What are you doing here? Why are you still wearing your dress from the last night?” I asked.

“Unfortunately I didn’t go to the party with an overnight bag because I had absolutely no plan of coming back here with you. Wish I had the power to see the future,” she said sarcastically.

I could bet there was something definitely wrong because Anu didn’t do sarcasm, ever.

“You stayed here last night?”

I ignored the burning sensation on my tongue caused by the steaming hot coffee and concentrated on her instead. Why did she spend a night here? Wasn’t she supposed to be with her awesome boyfriend in his posh apartment after a completely fabulous party?

“Yes.”

She was talking in monosyllables now. Fantastic.

“Why?” I asked gingerly while peering over my coffee.

“Because you didn’t leave me any bloody choice,” she screeched.

“What?” I was flummoxed.

“Stop playing this fucking why-what game with me. Do you have any idea of the damage you did last night?” she screamed.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I whispered. It was the truth.

“Talk louder for Christ’s sake,” she screamed, again.

“I don’t know what you are on about,” I said with blank face and equally blank mind.

“Are you even serious?” she threw me a disgusting look.

“Yes.” I looked at her with panda eyes.

“My goodness. The nerve of you,” she jumped to her feet like a ninja and for one second I thought she was going to kick me in my head. “You fucking slapped my boyfriend, well ex-boyfriend, called one of his friends a slut, poured wine on another friend’s jeans, broke his BMW’s window, forcefully opened the door and peed on the driver’s seat.”

“I peed in a BMW?” I was in shock.

“You did,” she breathed.

“Why would I do that?” I croaked.

“You seriously don’t remember a thing?” she looked at me suspiciously.

“I don’t.”

“Well,” she placed her hands on my shoulders and forced me to sit down, “Last night when you arrived at Sameer’s birthday party your mood was already off and on top of that you were quite tipsy.”

I knew she was putting it mildly. With the amount of wine I had had last night I couldn’t be any less then horribly drunk.

“You went totally out of control when one of his friends accidently grinded his shin against your arse and you poured red wine on his jeans, which to be honest would have been a first reaction of any sensible girl. And then Sameer started to act like a total moron. He pulled Reeva on his lap and buried his face in her cleavage while she cracked all sorts of dirty jokes. And before I could do anything about it you grabbed her hair, dragged her off his lap and slapped him on the face.” She looked at me wide-eyed.

“I tried to stop you but you wouldn’t listen. And when I finally managed to get you out of the club, you went all cuckoo at the sight of his BMW in the parking lot. You broke the window by bashing your Aldo against it, opened the door and peed all over the driver’s seat,” she breathed. “Do you seriously not remember any of it?” she was astonished.

“Wow. Did I do that? Like actually?” I couldn’t believe my ears. I had never hit a fly in my life.

“Yes. You did.”

“And you are angry because?”

“I am angry not because of what you did to him or his friends, they totally deserved it. I am angry because he can report you to the police for violence. It’s a BMW for crying out loud,” she was genuinely concerned.

***

One long shower later I was sprawled on my sofa in my last clean pair of pyjamas and a slightly faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt besides Anu who was looking completely stunning in one of my long T-shirts despite of the fact that it was two sizes too large for her. She made it look chic, like a T-shirt dress. Yes. Sometimes I did hate her.

“Do you really think he’ll report me to the police?” I asked while slowly working my way through the blueberry muffin.

“To be honest, not really,” she said with a very calculative face.

“But just an hour back you said he would.”

“Well I didn’t say he would. I said he could,” she correctly pointed out. “Listen, babes, he may be a bit of a twat but he is very sensitive about his ego and pride. Though he would want to get back at you for what you did to his car, he is too much of a ‘man’ to go to the police and accept that a girl damaged his car and pride.”

Shit!

“OK. But what do you think he can do to get back at me?” I croaked.

“I don’t know. Jeez, Maya, yesterday you acted so rowdy and strong and now you are concerned about what he might do. Fuck him. Who the hell cares?” she grimaced.

“I care,” I gulped.

“Maya!”

“OK. Fine. Leave it,. Anyway it’s not doing me any good thinking that he could get me kidnapped, murdered or at least arrested for peeing in his BMW. And while we are on this topic I am just curious to know that what the hell you were doing with a guy like him in the first place?”

“Well. He may be an asshole,” she started carefully but when she noticed my eyes bulging out of my face on her may be she quickly rectified her statement. “OK. Since our first date I knew he is not a guy with passable manners or even a decent character. But I knew that he would be a kind of guy who would buy me flowers without any occasion and take me to endless dinners, lunches, polo matches and even concerts.”

She took one glance at my scrunched up nose and carried on talking without waiting for me to say anything.

“He did pamper me like a princess. What else could a girl ask for?”

“It would have been better to ask for some respect and commitment as well,” I pointed out.

“Oh come on, Maya. He never disrespected me, not directly at least,” she added hastily as she looked at my unimpressed face.

“He had another girl sit on his lap. That was disrespect towards you and your relationship,” I stated the obvious.

“Maya, seriously it’s better to be with someone than to be alone,” she said irritably.

“And I thought they said that it’s better be alone than to be with someone wrong.”

“Who says this?”

“Errrr … Internet, books, movies …”

“That’s rubbish. Clichéd. OK, tell me what you get out of believing in this shit? You are twenty-five for fuck sake and you’ve never had a relationship. On Saturday nights you sit here and watch crap movies on TV when the entire city is out there; dinning, clubbing and having the time of their lives. I was with him because I didn’t want to be like you. Sitting here, waiting for Mr. Right and sulking. I preferred to be with Mr. Wrong and have fun. What’s wrong with that? He overstepped, I understand and I am so grateful that you stepped in and slapped him. I am happy it’s over but I don’t regret the time I spent with him. Come out of your dream world, Maya, and open your eyes to reality. Live your life for Christ’s sake. Go out, take your chances and have some fun with Mr. Wrong and for the trillionth time just sod-off your idea of the perfect guy. And let me have the honor of bursting the bubble you live in and tell you that there are no Mr. Right or Mr. Wrong. They all are just men and all men are same,” she let it all out.

Crap movies? They were my life. Now I was hurt.

“Anu …” before I could string a sentence together she shoved her hand in my face, signalling me to stop, gathered her stuff and stomped out of the flat.

5

June 2

On Sunday I woke up with a throbbing headache despite sleeping the entire day and night after Anu stormed out. My mind was still reeling from our conversation. Was she right? About the fact that in twenty-five years I had never had a relationship. But was it actually my fault? Suddenly my life started to feel like one big black hole. Hopping out of the bed, I made my way towards the kitchenette. This flat was more littered than ever. Maybe I should give it a thorough cleaning because I didn’t have anything better to do today.

Oh fuck! Is it actually mine? I wondered while examining whatever was left of the red-ish looking pants which might have served as breakfast, lunch or dinner to a bunch of rats at some point of time. I had absolutely no memory of possessing any kind of red-ish pants. Chucking it away in a black garbage bag, I made my way through the rest of my closet while praying in my heart that nothing too creepy jumped out of it.

After spending half of the day cleaning the closet, I realized that I didn’t have a single item of clean clothing hanging in there. How could I let things get so out of hand? I questioned myself in vain. Gathering all the dirty laundry from the bedroom floor, kitchen top and from under the sofa, I headed towards the bathroom and dumped all of it in the washing machine and emptied at least half a packet of washing powder in it. It needed a good wash. Once done with the laundry, I hoisted all the empty take away boxes from the floor and shoved them into the garbage bag. The next two hours were spent in changing the bed linen, stacking my magazines in one neat pile next to the sofa, arranging my movie DVDs, dusting the furniture, cleaning the kitchen top, washing the dishes, ridding my refrigerator of the weight of thousands of post-it notes, mopping the floor, cleaning the toilet, washing the tiles, scrubbing the washbasin and finally cleaning the shower area. By the time I was done with all the chores, my flat was looking like a home rather than the house of a garbage hoarder. Dragging three fully loaded black bin bags out of my apartment into the corridor for the garbage man to collect in the morning, I was dreaming about a very very long bath and then eating take away in front of the TV when the lift pinged opened in the corridor and in her super cute mini dress with pointy straight hair, Anu emerged from it. Fabulous, now I felt like shit!

“What are you doing here?” I didn’t mean to sound so rude and as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

“Have you ran a marathon or got someone in your bed? Why are you so sweaty?” she eyed me suspiciously.

“Shut up. I was just cleaning the flat,” I retorted.

“Cleaning? Oh fuck. Did I hurt you that bad?” she looked guilty.

“Yes. You called my movie DVDs crap. What do you expect?” I barked haughtily.

“DVDs? That’s it? Out of the entire conversation, all you heard about was DVDs?” Blatant shock was evident on her face.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you and I absolutely didn’t plan to say any of it, it just somehow came out,” she explained while glancing around my flat. Her eyes dilated. Yes, it looked that good.

“I know,” I said.

“You did all this on your own?” she was in a trance.

“Yes. I did.”

“Come on, Maya. Don’t talk to me in monosyllables now.”

“Anu, what you want me to say? Yesterday you made it clear that you think I am some unrealistic, irrational, dysfunctional woman and now you expect me to hug and kiss you? I mean I am not slapping you, isn’t that enough?” I stated the truth.

Her face hung open very unattractively. That was so un-Anu like.

“I didn’t at all say that you were some unrealistic, irrational and dysfunctional woman. All I said that you need to stop living in a dream. You can’t wait for Mr. Right to come along for your entire life. What if he doesn’t? What if you remain single, forever?” she said in the hushed tone.

Oh my, that did sound logical. What if she was right? Crap.

“I don’t want to talk about it at all,” I said and it was true. Talking about it was scaring the shit out of me.

“OK,” she nodded in agreement. “Let’s forget about what I said yesterday, I am so very sorry for that and I hope you know it,” she threw her hands around my shoulders and gave me a tight hug. I knew she was sorry. “Anyways, to thank you for showing that son of bitch his place, I want to take you out shopping,” she beamed.

***

“Ta-da!” She threw her arms in the air. Her face was the picture of pride.

“What are we doing here?” I asked while soaking in the sight of beautifully arranged clothes and shoes in Zara. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Well, I felt like it every time I entered a showroom full of glittering jewelery, beautiful bags, high towering magical shoes and awe-inspiring clothes. Whenever I found myself in middle of all these sparkly goodies, I felt like as if they were looking at me with innocent eyes and are absolutely dying to have a conversation with me. Don’t get me wrong, but I could talk to clothes for hours and whenever I felt like crying I preferred to shed tears clutching a shoe to my chest rather than sobbing on Anu’s shoulder. Though there was nothing wrong with her shoulder, it certainly wasn’t as sparkly and shiny as a pair of shoes and that faint aroma of leather could calm me more than her assuring arm. Though I was grateful of having a friend like her, I was absolutely thrilled to have whatever significantly-small-but-still-beautiful collection of shoes and clothes I owned. Considering my salary I was lucky that I could at least afford high street brands, which was certainly better than collecting bohemian shoes and clothes from the flea market.

“Shopping!” she clapped her hands and started jumping like a very excited puppy.

“Are you bloody kidding me?” I threw my head back in the air and shirked.

“Why would you think I am kidding?” she eyed me suspiciously as if I was going to jump on her from my spot and bite her ear off.

“Well just to refresh your memory, last time when we went shopping, we learned the heart-ripping reality about me, I am fat now. Hence no clothes are going to fit me here.” I fought the urge to cry.

“You are not fat. God, are you still stuck there? Why don’t you buy just a bigger size and get over it?” she asked nonchalantly. There, that word was once again there, bigger. I didn’t know if I could ever forgive her for using that word for the third time in last two days.

“Anu, I don’t want to have this conversation once again,” I said firmly.

“OK,” she got the hint. “Then why don’t you just buy a new bag or shoes? I am sure you are still the same size in those departments,” she winked playfully.

Though I was tempted to buy a new bag, which God knows I did need more than anything else, letting Anu pay for it didn’t sound right and I for sure couldn’t afford it in my current situation unless I put the bill on my emergency credit card which was safely tucked away under my matress for strictly emergency situations and this, today, didn’t feel like an emergency situation.

“You know what? I don’t want to do any shopping. Let’s go home,” I said in a subdued tone.

“What’s up with you?” she asked with genuine concern.

“I just don’t feel like shopping. Can we go somewhere else?”

Anu looked at me with disbelief but agreed to put off shopping without much ado.

***

“What do you want to have? I am starving!” Anu patted her barely-there stomach while reading through the menu in Treats café and bakery in Bandra.

“Ummmm … I’ll have the skinny salad and the vegetable loaf,” I beamed without even looking at the menu.

I remembered their menu, everything from Banoffee Pie to Rainbow Jar, Red Velvet Tart to French Crepes and Caramel Shortbread to Cupcake Shake. I came across this cosy, little and absolutely beautiful place by accident on a very rainy day last monsoon season and while it poured outside, I sat inside in the comforting buttery aroma and had the most scrumptious meal of my life. But today I had no courage to even think about letting the gooey, sugary goodness passing through my lips. A moment on the lips, forever on the hips. In the situation like mine I couldn’t let it happen, not any more.

“No cupcakes?” Anu looked at me through considerably narrowed eyes.

“Err … I guess I’ll stick to the salad and bread. Healthy and tasty,” I wanted to sound excited and confident about my choice of food, but instead I felt nervous under her steely gaze.

“All right,” she nodded slowly before placing the order. Salad and bread for me, cronut and hot chocolate for her. Few minutes later when our order arrived, I started picking through my salad. I manged to get couple of forkfuls down my throat and was actually started to enjoy it. Then I saw the soft, fluffy, creamy custard oozing from the cronut Anu was digging into.

“I can’t do it,” I declared.

“What you can’t do?” Anu looked at me inquisitively.

“All this dieting malarkey, I can’t do it. I don’t care how healthy this salad is, I want that,” I pointed at her plate where the sweet, thick custard was running everywhere.

“Maya,” she looked at me sympathetically. “Who asked you to go on the stupid diet? If getting one dress size up is such a big deal for you then join a gym but don’t deprive yourself of the things you love,” she placed her hand on mine. “And to be honest, you look beautiful with curves in all the right places, no matter what dress size you are,” she said in a very reassuring manner but I knew she was just being nice.

Agreed, I had curves in all the right places but lately those curves had started to resemble dangerously bandy roads.

“You’re probably right. I don’t have to stop eating anything, I just have to figure out the way to get rid of the calories that come with it,” I said excitedly.

A couple of hours later when Anu dropped me off in front on my apartment building, instead of heading to my flat and vanishing under the sheets, I decided to sign up at the gym which was down the road. To be honest I wanted to do it before I could change my mind.

6

June 4

Today I was supposed to be up and ready by six-thirty for my first ever spinning class but when my alarm rang to life at six a.m. sharp, I failed spectacularly to haul myself out of bed.

Filled with remorse, guilt and anger on my failure, I walked into the smallest elevator of the world and squeezed myself between the four people who definitely belonged to the sales department. They dismounted on the first floor, into the same direction with a practiced, synchronized walk. Bizarre.

As soon as I found myself alone, I took a deep sigh because now I could adjust my knickers which were two sizes too small for me but were the only sexy knickers I possessed. The people who tell you to eat chocolate when you are sad or angry are not always right. Try lacy knickers in the right size and you would feel equally comforted and satisfied. Now, I didn’t buy two-sizes-too-small knickers to dupe myself into thinking that I was petite. I got them for free when they were sent to Style for promotions by a new lingerie company and everyone got to pick. By the time I came to know about it and had raced to the conference room to get mine, there were only two sizes left: S or L. I picked S.

Lifting my kaftan dress up and clutching its hem between my chin and chest, I was busy adjusting its digging elastic. Ah! What a relief! Suddenly I felt the lift going down instead of up where it should have been going. Before I could do anything about it the doors opened on the ground floor, revealing the very awful sight of my cellulite-covered thighs. I wanted to do die right there.

“Oh fuck,” I muttered under my breath.

A tall, lean, dishevelled and utterly gorgeous man with a sharp look was standing there, right in front of me, absorbing the horrible view of my horrible knickers and absolutely horrendous thighs. I was frozen in my spot. I had never seen a guy like him in flesh and blood ever before in my life. His angular jaw and perfectly sculpted face set my heart racing. I couldn’t bring myself to look away from his utterly gorgeous face

“Are you all right?” walking inside the lift, he asked in an impossibly gentlemanly manner. His voice gave me goose bumps, everywhere. It felt like the music to my ears. I looked at him shamelessly.

“Yes,” I finally found my voice and my senses and quickly averted my gaze. Pulling the dress down to cover my generous curves I mumbled, “Sorry about that,” and looked at the lift floor, willed it to split in two and swallow me whole. For the first time in my life I had met a guy like him and that too in this horrible state. Why did I have cellulite thighs

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